


Two Can Play

by codswallop



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Blow Jobs, Humor, M/M, Prostitution, Rentboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin's rentboy past comes to light; Douglas is intrigued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Can Play

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to garryowen for plotting ideas and beta-reading. <3

Martin was ridiculously easy to get drunk, which was how the trouble all began. 

It happened during an unplanned overnight layover in St. Petersburg: a vile hotel room that they’d had to share due to Caroline’s ruthless budgeting, a bottle of top-shelf vodka casually liberated from duty-free...Douglas didn’t partake, of course, but Martin had been more of an uptight prat than usual lately, and Douglas had thought it might be amusing to lubricate him a bit. So to speak.

They played “Never have I ever,” with a reverse twist: drink if you never have. Douglas quaffed water (infrequently; he had done just about everything it was humanly possible to do, not to brag--well, yes, of course to brag, who was he kidding?) while Martin downed shot after shot of Stolichnaya, stubbornly at first and then giddily, giggling, and finally slurring and sloppy. He’d be down for the count soon, and Douglas could put him to bed and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. Perhaps in the company of one of the black-wrapped magazines he’d recently acquired in Surakarta.

“Never have I ever--oh, let’s see--performed oral sex in a pay toilet,” Douglas suggested, thinking one more shot might just do the trick.

“You rotten bastard,” Martin muttered, starting to raise his glass to his lips. “Oh. No, wait, I’ve done that one, actually.”

“ _Have_ you?” Douglas raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Yes I have,” Martin said defiantly. “Loads of times. Or...oh. You meant on a woman. No, no, you didn’t spef, spefiss, specify. So it counts. Here’s one for you: Never have I ever performed oral sex _for pay_ in a toilet. Ha! Two can play, can’t they?”

Douglas looked at him, then drank his shot of water and set the empty glass down on the table. “Yes, Martin. I suppose they can.”

“Knew it,” Martin said with drunken satisfaction. “I’m going to be sick,” he added, without changing tone or expression.

Douglas got up and took him by the elbow, lifting him up from the chair he was slumped into. He steered Martin over to the toilet, pushing him inside and shutting the door firmly between them.

Martin emerged a few minutes later, looking very white but thankfully unsoiled. “False alarm,” he said. “Still, I think I’m done playing.”

“I should say so, yes.” Douglas watched warily as Martin wove over and dropped down onto the rollaway cot the hotel staff had grudgingly provided. (They’d flipped for the bed.) He went and used the loo himself, then fetched the bin and set it down carefully next to the head of the cot. As an afterthought, he leaned down and loosened Martin’s tie.

“Not tonight, I have a headache,” Martin mumbled, and then opened his eyes and gave Douglas a rather watery half-smile. “Joke,” he explained.

“Did you really perform oral sex for pay in toilets, Martin?” Douglas asked, feeling terribly paternal and protective all of a sudden. His vestigial conscience was so annoying at times. He vowed again to give it up.

“Yeah, lots.” Martin pulled his tie the rest of the way off, dropping it on the floor, and began fumbling with his shirt buttons. “Or, not lots and lots, I don’t know, really. More than ten times, less than twenty. When I needed the money for my licensing re-take.”

Douglas, tactfully, and with considerable self-restraint, didn’t ask him which of the six re-takes he meant.

“It honestly wasn’t bad,” Martin went on dreamily, giving up on the buttons and settling down into the cot. “A couple of the blokes I didn’t care much for, but most of them were attractive enough. On the whole, I...enjoyed it? I know it sounds mad, but I did. It was exciting, you know, little bit dangerous, but I liked it, I liked being the one in control--”

Douglas must have made an involuntary sound at this point.

“I was,” Martin insisted. “I don’t know how you can be more in control of another man than having his cock in your mouth. God, I did rather love it, actually. I was good at it, too.” He laughed. “I should take it up again. Could certainly still use the money.”

“Go to sleep, Martin,” Douglas told him, and Martin sighed, turned over on his side, tucked one hand up under his chin, and instantly obeyed.

*

Martin was about as wretched as could be expected the next morning, and Douglas avoided him altogether, so much as it was possible to avoid someone in a very small hotel room and, a bit later, a much smaller airplane cockpit. It was a cold, rainy day, perfectly grey in every way, until a few minutes after takeoff when they broke through the cloud cover and the bright morning sun illuminated every crevice of GERTI’s interior, striking off the metal surfaces of the instrument panel and throwing reflected beams into their eyes. Douglas merely squinted, but Martin reached for his sunglasses and groaned.

“Yes, bit of a night for you last night, wasn’t it?” Douglas ventured.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Martin said quickly.

“All right.”

Three minutes passed. Martin made a short disgusted noise.

“Fine. Yes. I do, in case you’re wondering, remember every unfortunate word of...what I told you last night, and I know you’re dying to tease me about it, so you may as well get started. Go ahead! You’ve probably come up with twenty bad puns in the last ten minutes alone. Let’s have them, then.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Martin.” 

“Yes, you do, and I’m sure you’re practically exploding with the need to make funny little cabin addresses containing sly references to the fact that MJN’s captain likes to give--”

“Famous people with alliterative names,” Douglas said.

“What?”

“Adam Ant.”

“No, I’m not--”

“Walt Whitman,” Douglas went on. “Marilyn Monroe. Tina Turner. Come on, Martin, this is an easy one. Nice morning warm-up, if you will.”

“Douglas,” Martin sighed. “I’d rather just get this over with and not try to pretend--”

“Robert Redford,” Douglas said firmly.

Martin pressed his lips together and made minor useless adjustments to the instrument panel. “Lex Luthor.”

Douglas made a wrong-buzzer sound. “Fictional.”

“You didn’t say real famous people!”

And they were off.

*

It didn’t mean Douglas had forgotten the incident, of course. On the contrary. He had to make a real effort to put it out of his head over the next few days, the thought of Martin-- _Martin!_ \--doing...that. With his mouth. To men.

_I did rather love it, actually. I was good at it, too._

Martin had quite a lovely mouth, it was true; Douglas had noted it on occasion, even before, in a wonder-why-he-can’t-get-a-date sort of way. Expressive and mobile. Shapely. He wasn’t afraid to use his tongue, either, Douglas judged, watching him savour an ice lolly in Ibiza one hot afternoon. Points for enthusiasm, too. He probably _was_ quite good at it.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Martin wanted to know. “Oh, damn, I’ve dribbled cherry ice down my uniform shirt, haven’t I, god, I knew coconut would be the safer bet.”

“Sorry, just thinking,” Douglas said. 

*

 _I don’t know how you can be more in control of another man than having his cock in your mouth._ That one came back to him at night, after he’d put the lights out and was enjoying a...solitary moment. The timing was unfortunate. Or perhaps not, he considered, as he brought himself off in record time. 

Goodness.

Well, he was a man of the world, after all. He’d never said all the hosties he’d used to bag were female. It had been a while, though. And of all people: _Martin_? 

_I should take it up again. Could certainly still use the money._

Douglas allowed himself to consider the possibility for a full minute. To fantasise, even. Supposing he could arrange the thing in anonymity...or to pose the question to Martin hypothetically at first. A friend of a friend. Just wondered if you know anyone who might. That sort of thing. Martin would...would blush, probably, and stammer awkwardly, and...

No, too ridiculous, he couldn’t get past it. And he couldn’t give Martin money, anyway; even Douglas could see it would be beyond the beyond. Impossible.

Douglas closed his eyes and thought about the impossibility of Martin’s hesitant tongue and shaking hands, Martin’s dry soft lips brushing the head of his cock, until he was hard and aching and needed to touch himself again. 

*

The next morning, he began to plan.

*

Douglas Richardson’s once-legendary seduction techniques were, admittedly, a bit the worse for wear these days. He actually had been faithful to Helena, more fool him, and since the divorce he’d been too out of sorts to go on the prowl. In theory, it should have been an interesting challenge to see how quickly he could get Martin on his knees. 

The trouble was...well, there were several troubles. Martin was ridiculously dense, for one thing. Head in the clouds, quite literally. Standard flirtation techniques (hand-brushing, eye contact, standing close) simply bounced right off him, and it didn’t help that they were packed together like tinned anchovies for hours on end on a regular basis as it was. Hand-brushing was hardly a notable event in such close quarters; he’d have to actually full-on snog the man to get him to take notice.

Which would be one effective method, certainly, but Douglas decided to leave it as a last resort. It lacked subtlety. Finesse. Douglasness. 

And getting him drunk again...no. Too easy, and potentially messy.

Instead, he arranged for a well-dressed irate Armenian diplomat to demand access to the cockpit during the post-landing checks after a flight to Paris, verbally abuse Martin in another language, and threaten him with legal action and grave bodily harm.

“What’s he saying?” Martin, who was cornered and cringing in the flight deck doorway, glanced nervously at the shouting man’s proximity to the cockpit axe. “I don’t speak...what’s he speaking?”

“Armenian, I believe,” Douglas said, unconcerned, still ticking off items on his checklist. “And _I might be wrong, Chief_ , but I _think_ he’s accusing you of making inappropriate advances on his wife.”

“When? What? No!” The Armenian diplomat (actually a retired ATC from Bristol named Eric Haladjian, former drinking mate, good sense of humour, terrible at darts) doubled the speed and volume of his accusations. Arthur appeared briefly in the background, looking alarmed, but Douglas quickly waved him off with their agreed-upon signal.

Martin backed practically up into Douglas’s lap. “I never even...you mean the woman seated next to him? 1-C? I only said ‘welcome-on-board-I-hope-you-enjoy-your-flight’ to her!”

“Well, you said it a bit too charmingly, I suppose,” Douglas said. “He seems to be under the impression you’ve invited her to meet you at your hotel tonight for, one can only assume, a romantic assignation of some sort.”

“I didn’t!” Martin told him, then turned to appeal to the man who was now making a few easy-to-interpret gestures describing the short-term fate of Martin’s manhood. “Oh, god, how do you say ‘Sir, there’s been a misunderstanding, I did not proposition your wife’ in Armenian?”

“Hmm. Hang on, I really _ought_ to know this one...”

“Douglas!”

Douglas put down the clipboard he was holding and got to his feet. “Here, I know one we can try. _Vous vous trompez, monsieur, mon ami n’aime que les hommes._ ”

Martin and Eric both stopped and stared at him. “That’s not Armenian,” Martin pointed out.

“No, but he filled out his customs form in French. I just said ‘you’re mistaken, sir, my friend only likes men.’”

“What!” Martin looked outraged. 

“Or something like it; I admit my French isn’t perfectly up to the mark these days.”

“I don’t _only_ like men! I’m bisexual, thank you, which is a perfectly valid--”

“Martin, do you really think this is the best possible time to quibble over sexual identity politics? I don’t think he believed me, anyhow. Kiss me.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Convincingly, if you can manage it,” Douglas said, putting an arm about his waist and leaning in. 

Martin swallowed and wet his lips with a quick, nervous-looking dart of his tongue. “Douglas,” he said again, weakly.

“Captain,” Douglas said in a low voice, and felt Martin yield against him, eyes fluttering shut and breath catching in his chest, tilting his head up so that his lips finally brushed against Douglas’s--oh, soft mouth, warm--

“I’ve got this!” Arthur shouted, bursting in from the galley in triumph and wielding the fire extinguisher like a flamethrower, dousing all three of them liberally in chemical foam. “I’ve got this! I’ll save you, Skip! Run!”

Eric and his well-cut dinner jacket got the worst of it. “Oh, what in bleeding hell, Douglas!” he said in his natural (and rather broad) accent. “A joke’s a joke right enough, but I was meant to return this kit to the hire shop in good nick inside of twenty-four hours--I’ll lose my bleeding deposit now!”

Douglas rounded on Arthur. “I gave you the signal for All Proceeding According to Plan, Don’t Bother Us, Get Out Now!”

“Oh.” Arthur blinked. “I thought it was the signal for Help, Emergency Situation, Quickly Fetch the Fire Extinguisher,” he explained. “They’re very similar!”

Martin’s expression went from baffled to stormy in seconds flat. “I don’t think I’ll wait for the explanation on this one,” he said. “You can finish up the post-landing checks on your own, Douglas. I’ll be at the hotel if anyone needs me--and they’d much better not.” He flicked a bit of foam off his epaulet and stalked out.

*

“I’ve brought you a takeaway,” Douglas said when he finally got Martin to answer his hotel room door that night. He offered up a warm, spicy-smelling bag as proof.

“What sort?”

“Moroccan. Lamb curry,” said Douglas, who’d been paying more than customary attention to Martin’s restaurant preferences of late.

Martin took the bag, slammed the door in his face, and refused to respond to further knocks. Or phone calls. To his mobile or to his room phone.

He’d been wearing a rather threadbare t-shirt and striped pyjama trousers when he’d answered the door, Douglas had noticed. He’d looked terribly young and thin and terribly angry, and Douglas wanted him, suddenly, very badly.

He went back to the room and slid a note under Martin’s door.

_I haven’t got a chance in hell with you, have I?_

Martin phoned his room. “What do you mean, chance, chance at what? It’s my duty to inform you, Douglas, that your constant need to belittle and humiliate me at every opportunity constitutes workplace harassment, and if you think--”

“I’m very sorry, Martin,” Douglas cut in. “I apologise to you formally and will do so again in front of Arthur and Eric, if you like. It was a terrible mistake and a completely misguided way to go about announcing my intentions to you.”

“I’ll say it was,” Martin snapped, and hung up.

He appeared at Douglas’s door five minutes later, pyjama-clad and fidgety. “Who’s Eric?”

“The Armenian gentleman,” Douglas said. “Old friend. Owed me one.”

Martin thought about it, wheels visibly turning. “What do you mean by ‘announcing my intentions’?” 

Douglas raised his eyebrows, cleared his throat, and shrugged, which was as far as he was capable of extending himself at this point. Too far by half, really. “You can wait in the hall while you work it out,” he suggested to Martin, pushing him gently back out into the hallway, and shut the door.

Douglas didn’t bring pyjamas on overnight trips. When he answered the door again, he was wearing an unbuttoned shirt over his vest, pale-blue boxers, and a careful expression--halfway between hangdog and hopeful.

“I’m confused,” Martin said, so Douglas led him into the room, shut the door, backed Martin up against the closed door, and kissed him thoroughly. He’d brushed his teeth before coming over, endearingly, but he still tasted of lingering spice beneath the mint.

“ _Douglas_ ,” Martin said, rather breathlessly, when he broke it off. “But...you don’t...”

“I think it’s safe to say that I do,” Douglas told him. 

“Oh,” said Martin. “Well, that changes things,” and he took Douglas by the shoulders, turning him round and reversing their positions so that Douglas was the one up against the door, then kissed him back as if he were starved for it: hungry, messy, hands grasping briefly everywhere. 

Douglas was suitably impressed, so far as he could manage cognisant thought.

*

“So unprofessional, though,” Martin murmured, in the dark now, on the bed, in the warm disheveled post-sex silence.

“We could make it professional,” Douglas said, carding a hand through Martin’s wild hair and kissing him on the neck. “What’s the going rate these days?” Martin felt so lithe and smooth against him and smelled so fresh, even dampened by the activity, that it was difficult not to think _boy toy_. But he was, after all, the captain, and he’d certainly just proved his ability to take control.

“Mmmm....about the price of a decent takeaway meal, I believe,” Martin said, running his thumb up and down along Douglas’s hipbone at the base of his lower belly, making him quiver anew.

“That makes us even, then,” Douglas said. “I suppose.”

“I suppose so, yes.” Martin sat up and began feeling around for his pyjamas, which he located and donned much too quickly for Douglas’s liking. Naturally, he’d see it as a cancelled transaction. A trick. A mutually beneficial one-time-only arrangement. Even Martin, awkward as he was, wouldn’t want--

“Friday, your place, Chinese,” Martin said crisply, turning back at the door. “I’ll be round at twenty-one hundred hours, we’re not talking about it, referring to it, or making jokes about it until then, and I _will_ have a formal apology from you in front of Arthur and...Eric, or whatever his name is, poor sod. Yes?”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Douglas agreed, and then lay awake for ages after Martin let himself out, trying to decide whether or not he’d just been a bit played, and whether he minded or not if he had.


End file.
